


A Little Drunk on You

by jamieharper



Category: A Likely Story
Genre: ?? is that even a word, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Drunkenness, M/M, Suicide, i m so sorry i got inspired i blame tumblr tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 15:05:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamieharper/pseuds/jamieharper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Horace gets into a car accident with his Skype left open, Weston grieves. There is literally no fluff in this, good luck ayyyy (also titled: jamie's shit at summaries)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Drunk on You

It was Horace’s first day being able to drive non-family members around. Weston had been planning on asking him on a date later over Skype, but was stuck working on a project for school. Once he finished, around 12:30, he drove as quickly as he could towards his house. Giving short, one-line answers to his parents, he practically sprinted upstairs to log onto Skype. Horace’s profile said online, but his status read ‘at store bc of parents, i’ll talk later.’ He fired off a quick message before beginning to browse tumblr. ‘Hi, lovely, call me when you get home.’  
A little over an hour later, Weston’s phone illuminated, reading that he was receiving a call, and he leaped for it. “Horace?” He queried, grinning uncontrollably. “William?” A woman’s voice replied, Horace’s mother. He’d always tried to get her to use his last name, but she had always refused. She was like like a second mother to him, however. “I’m so sorry, dear, I-” She cut off, voice shaking before returning to the speaker, a little softer. “Horace got in an…an accident on his way back from the store. They took him to the hospital but it was too late. He’s gone.” She hung up, seeming overly distraught. Weston dropped his phone, letting out an angry guttural howl. He dropped from his chair, coiling up against his bed and kicking his feet.  
Twenty-ish minutes later, he surfaced from despair and sent a few more messages.  
 **‘your mother just called and holy fuck no no no no no please for the love of god please i am begging you, please be alright please please please please.’  
** ‘PLEASE COME ON PLEASE’  
‘I DONT ASK NICELY FOR ANYTHING YOU KNOW THAT’  
‘PLEASE COME ON’  
‘..........please god i just……...’

It was a year after Horace had died. A year after the worst days of Westons life began. They continued still, and he felt as if they’d never stop. He had just gotten home from the cemetery, clad in a blazer, white button-up, and dress slacks.  
‘i went back to your grave today’

Tuesday, August Seventh, 2012. 7:02 PM.  
‘HELLO WHERE ARE YOU’

Weston usually thought he’d never drink, but his parents had left for the weekend, they had recently restocked their liquor cabinet, and damn if he didn’t notice that watermelon vodka staring him in the face. He went downstairs to grab it and ended up with all of his parents sweet alcohol from the cabinet. Five shot glasses later, he logged onto Skype.  
 **‘im a little drunk and i just thought you should know’  
** ‘i love you like a cannonball lvoes water and like how pirate shits love tidal waves’  
‘oops’  
‘pirate shits haha i meant pirate ships’  
‘you would have liked that’  
‘we would have laughed at that’  
‘holy fuck’  
‘please come back’

Weston wasn’t usually a church-goer, but Mrs. Anderson had called asking if he wanted to come with her and her husband and daughter Eleanor, and he’d be the biggest piece of shit to decline. He talked to Eleanor the most, however, and noticed that they might as well be twins. Same dead eyes, same unkempt hair, same lazy, loosely-fitting clothes. He hadn’t really noticed how much his boyfriend’s death had taken a toll on him, but he realized as he stared at one of the only reminders of him.  
 **‘saw your sister at church today. she looks like god has fallen from her fingertips.’  
‘i wonder if she dreams of you like i do even though we are both doing our damndest to forget.’**

Monday, August 20, 2012.  
 **‘WHEN IS THIS GOING TO STOP HURTING’**

He tried to drink himself dead the other day, but he was caught in the middle of his seventh glass, and his parents had thrown the glass from his hands and rushed him to the hospital. He woke up with a splitting headache with his parents dozing in the rooms chairs. A wave of guilt washed over him, knowing he would probably end up like this again. When he’d faced suicidal tendencies before, Horace was always there to help him, and this fact fell upon him like a dead weight.  
 **‘i miss you like how battleships  
** miss home. i miss you like  
i was sick and you were the cure.  
i miss you all the fucking time  
and it’s been  
so long and i have no  
goddamn right  
to still hurt this badly  
every fucking night’

He knew people talked about him, about how he was the kid with the dead boyfriend from last year, the kid who was fucked up. He kept writing anyway, not even being reprimanded by his teachers. They simply gave him a sad look and let him continue, not wanting to interrupt whatever he was doing, however he was coping.  
 **‘hey so i wrote you a script’  
** ‘so’  
‘that’  
‘happeneddddddd’  
‘if you’  
‘want’  
‘to’  
‘read it’  
‘i guess’  
‘but in the end you make it home so i guess you wouldn’t like it’

The school dance had been earlier that night. Weston had only attended because his friends insisted, Zelda particularly, but as one song in particular began to play he couldn’t handle it and left.  
 **‘ONLY THE GOOD DIIIIIEEE YOUNG’  
** ‘only the good die young’  
‘wow no’  
‘that’s not what i meant’  
‘ahhhh yes’  
‘talking to myself again’

**‘happy birthday sorry this is late please still like me okay’**

**‘my mother says to stop messaging you, she says it’s not healthy.’  
** ‘but what does she know about loss?’  
‘you know, it’s kind of nice’  
‘it’s kind of nice’ 

**‘i hope it’s better where you are, i hope you’re maybe reading my bad poetry or going over scripts with somebody famous, or singing along with musicals or fixing my scripts’  
‘i hope you like what you see’**

‘ive missed you so fucking much, horace, and i can’t deal with this anymore. eleanor’s no doubt found you by now. i hope you’ve reprimanded her for leaving me and your parents.’  
‘and then given her a long hug and told her never to leave you again’  
‘i’ll see you soon, maybe a few minutes? now that i’m doing this i’m nervous for what you’ll think of me as i am now.’  
Weston sighed, running a hand through his curly brown hair. He changed his Skype status to ‘Do Not Disturb’ and the message to ‘i’m so sorry - Weston’ as a sort of final act. He positioned the smooth, cold, metallic object by his head.  
 _Bang._

**Author's Note:**

> basically just a small feels-y drabble i felt like writing one day. inspired by that post on tumblr with the person talking to someone who died i coulDNT FIND A LINK IM SORRY I THOUGHT I SAVED IT


End file.
